DEEP-SEA SOUNDINGS.

There are just one or two we won't refuse,

If they come by, to help us now and then;
But we want only friends to be of use,

And not all these idle grown men.
Perhaps if we hurry very much,

And don't lose an instant of the day,
There'll be time for the last lovely touch,
Before the sea sweeps it all away!

123

ANON.

DEEP-SEA SOUNDINGS.

MARINER, what of the deep?

This of the deep:

Twilight is there, and solemn, changeless calm;
Beauty is there, and tender, healing balm,
Balm with no root in earth, or air, or sea;
Poised by the finger of God, it floateth free,
And, as it treadeth the waves, the sound doth rise,

Hither shall come no farther sacrifice;

Never again the anguished clutch at life,
Never again great Love and Death at strife.
He who hath suffered all need fear no more,
Quiet his portion now for evermore.

Mariner, what of the deep?

This of the deep:

Solitude dwells not there, though silence reign;
Mighty the brotherhood of loss and pain;
There is communion past the need of speech,
There is a love no words of love can reach;

Heavy the waves that superincumbent press,
But as we labor here with constant stress,
Hand doth hold out to hand not help alone,
But the deep bliss of being fully known.
There are no kindred like the kin of sorrow,
There is no hope like theirs who fear no morrow.

Mariner, what of the deep?

This of the deep:

Though we have travelled past the line of day,
Glory of night doth light us on our way;
Radiance that comes we know not how or whence,
Rainbows without the rain past duller sense,
Music of hidden reefs and waves long past,
Thunderous organ-tones from far-off blast,
Harmony victrix clothed in state sublime,

Couched on the wrecks begemmed with pearls of time;
Never a wreck but brings some beauty here;

Down where the waves are stilled, the sea shines

clear;

Deeper than life, the plan of life doth lie.

He who knows all fears naught. Great Death shall

die.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

FAIR ship that from the Italian shore

Sailest the placid ocean plains,

With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings and waft him o'er!

ANON.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM.”

So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed

Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn!
All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, through early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks!
Sphere all your lights around, above;

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,

My friend, the brother of my love!
My Arthur, whom I shall not see

Till all my widowed race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me!

I hear the noise about thy keel;

I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin window bright;

I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,

And travelled men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;

And thy dark freight, a vanished life.
So bring him we have idle dreams;
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies; oh, to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems

125

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom deep in brine, And hands so often clasped in mine Should toss with tangle and with shells.

Thou comest much wept for; such a breeze
Compelled thy canvas, and my prayer
Was as the whisper of an air,
To breathe thee over lonely seas.

For I in spirit saw thee move

Through circles of the bounding sky,
Week after week; the days go by ;
Come quick, thou bringest all I love.
Henceforth, wherever thou mayest roam,
My blessing, like a line of light,
Is on the waters day and night,
And, like a beacon, guards thee home.
So may whatever tempest mars

Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark,
And balmy drops in summer dark
Slide from the bosom of the stars.

So kind an office hath been done,

Such precious relics brought by thee;
The dust of him I shall not see,

Till all my widowed race be run.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

UNDER THE SURFACE.

127

UNDER THE SURFACE.

N

I.

On the surface, foam and roar,

Restless heave and passionate dash;

Shingle rattle along the shore,

Gathering boom and thundering crash.

Under the surface, soft green light,

A hush of peace and an endless calm, Wind and waves from a choral height Falling sweet as a far-off psalm.

On the surface, swell and swirl,

Tossing weed and drifting waif, Broken spars that the mad waves whirl,

Where round wreck-watching rocks they chafe.

Under the surface, loveliest forms,

Feathery fronds with crimson curl,

Treasures too deep for the raid of storms,
Delicate coral and hidden pearl.

II.

On the surface, lilies white,

A painted skiff with a singing crew, Sky reflections soft and bright,

Tremulous crimson, gold, and blue.